


Dragon Age Drabbles

by winterstars



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-20 23:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11345199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterstars/pseuds/winterstars
Summary: various short writings featuring my Dragon Age OCs, mostly things that aren't good enough to deserve their own page





	1. Nightmare

"Darkspawn!"

The spluttering cry of warning rose to Moria’s lips as she pushed herself upright, ignoring the weariness of her limbs (still sore from the endless fighting and trekking in her heavy armour, an ache not lessened by being forced to sleep on nothing but a mat on the hard ground – back in Orzammar she’d had armour that fitted her properly and an actual bed to return to). Heart thumping wildly and adrenaline flaring in her veins, she looked from side to side, expecting to see torches glowing between the trees and dark shapes marching towards them. She had seen them marching, thousands on them, with a monstrous create standing over them. But the only one around now was Alistair, eyes glinting oddly in the light of the campfire as he blinked across at her from where he sat.

"Bad dreams, huh?" he asked.

"I - what?" she stammered. She couldn’t make sense of what she had seen, how they had all appeared before her and then vanished. Already the images felt slightly disjointed and foggy, like a half-forgotten memory. What had happened? Was she going crazy?

"It’s just a dream, but it seems real. I mean, it sort of is real. You see, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That what your dream was. Hearing them. The archdemon… it 'talks' to the hoard, and we feel it just as they do. That’s why we know this is really a blight."

As he talked, she pushed sleep-tangled hair out of her face and drew her knees up to her chin. She relaxed slightly as she realised there was no immediate threat, but was still deeply unsettled. The archdemon was even stranger and more terrifying than she had imagined, to be able to speak to her in visions while she slept. Visions that seemed so real to her, like actual memories… She hugged her legs tighter to her chest, trying not the see dark shapes moving through the shadows in the corners of her eyes. "I didn’t know that was part of being a warden. How – how do you bear it?"

"It was scary at first for me too," Alistair said, voice soft and sympathetic.

She frowned, annoyed by her own show of weakness. The threat of darkspawn hanging over her wasn’t something new, and she had stood beside her father and fought them back from Orzammar’s doors. A commander, not just a princess. She had enjoyed fighting them. But now there was no promise of a barricaded palace to shelter in, and no soldiers to protect her. She felt as if she were still trapped in the deep roads – unarmoured, unarmed, exiled, alone, surrounded by monsters. They were even in her mind, in her blood. She wasn’t even safe while she slept.

"We’ll finish this," she said, looking up, mustering determination born from fear, "then we won’t be afraid."


	2. Stories

Annika Hakwe could have paid to take her friends out to a posh tavern in Hightown, but there was something comfortable about the familiarity of the dirty and rowdy Hanged Man. They were seated at the table in Varric's private room, drinking and talking. A fire crackled in the hearth, warming the air, and the sounds of music and drunken conversation drifted through the open door. Hawke lifted her mug to her lips, drinking longer and deeper than usual. Anders, sitting across the table from her, noticed.

"Does that still hurt?" he asked, eyes shifting to the neckline of her dress, "It's been a week now." Bandages stuck out from underneath the fabric, wrapped around her shoulder and collarbone.

She set her drink down, rearranging her features into a smile. "It's fine," she told him, though whenever she moved it felt like the Arishock's spear was twisting through her skin again. She wasn't sure if the healer believed her or not, but she didn't want him to make a fuss about it.

Merrill looked away from her conversation with Isabela, twisting her hand with Annika's and resting her head on her uninjured shoulder. Aveline stood up to get them all refills, and the table lapsed into silence, listening to sound of music from the performers in the main bar. It was Fenris who broke it, head tipped thoughtfully to the side. "They're singing about you, Hawke."

"What?" Annika blinked, trying to make out the lyrics through the enthusiastically bad sing-along from the drunken patrons.

Varric leaned forward. "About your battle with the Arishock," the dwarf mused, "You've become quite the hero to them."

Merrill perked up, seeming excited by the idea. "We should go out there and dance!"

"You've got the right idea, kitten," Isabela said, swinging out of her seat. And before Annika had much of a chance to process what she thought of it all, the two of them were dragging her towards the bar.

She was used to being recognized. She helped people from the slums of Darktown to the Viscount's Keep. But the brief, almost confused hush that fell over the room as they realised the woman they were singing about was standing before them, was something completely different. It felt wrong, like they all thought she was something that she wasn't.

However, it only took a moment for the drunken rowdiness to return, sweeping her up in it. She joined in on the singing, spun on the dance floor to the beat of stamping feet and clapping hands, and reenacted the battle with Anders, who swung his staff and pretended to be the bellowing Quanari. One battle, immortalised in song, and immortalising her as Kirkwall's champion. She shouted that she would pay for another round for everyone, and soon they were cheering her name for a completely different reason.

The whole while, Varric leaned against the bar, drink in hand, and watched her with a knowing and slightly sad look in his eyes. He could recognize a story when he saw it.


End file.
